


Rotation and Resistance

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 02:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17737454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: A fic where Scully absentmindedly plays with Mulder’s watch. This was supposed to be a tipsy Scully fic, but it went a little differently. Maybe end season 6/early season 7.





	Rotation and Resistance

It’s a little after six in the evening and he’s pouring her a second large glass of red. They haven’t eaten yet, they haven’t even ordered yet. He’s dressed in a button-down shirt, so crisp white she suspects it’s mint out the box. She imagines the creases still visible down the front and back and hopes he slips his jacket off soon. Just to satisfy her curiosity. She chose a simple shift dress. Black. His eyes sparkled when she opened the door. Or maybe it was just the lighting in her hallway. 

“Finished the report on the case yet, Scully?” He shucks the jacket off and she watches the cotton flex on his shirt. Lines cut across it. The shape of the cardboard packaging.

She shakes her head and feels her hair loosen and fall around her face. He stops talking. Smiles. She feels her cheeks warm and she picks up the glass. “I haven’t even started it,” she admits, pushing away the rising guilt. She sips more wine. Maybe by the third glass on an empty stomach she’ll submit the report to Skinner late. 

“Rebel,” he says, and laughs, head nodding side to side in that way he has that looks like a marionette. His fingers tap against the starched cream tablecloth. She wonders again why he’s brought her here. Why they’re having dinner. Midweek. It feels illicit, like the drinking. And it’s not that she’s that much of a prude any more. But. Still.

His face always seems smoother, younger, when he laughs. Reminds her of their early cases. There was that one where he met her in a bar, offered a drink. She’d declined then. Almost told him off for the mere suggestion. Then he took off on an alien chase and lost his memory. What else have they lost over the years? Too much, she thinks. But they’ve gained things too. Time has softened the need in her to always make a good impression. And time has dulled Mulder’s capacity to shock her. Her cancer forced them to look at each other in a more appraising light. A more forgiving light. Her scepticism. His readiness to believe. They’ve both been tested, stretched and shaped into something more than partners. But they’re not quite…whatever the next descriptor is. Not yet. It’s a thought that surprises her as she tries it out in her mind. 

She sips more wine. Feels his foot knock against hers. He looks at the menu and starts reading out the choices. She’s only-half listening. He’s chosen to sit next to her, not opposite her. That was a surprise too. He’s always been tactile. Hand on the small of her back, fingers cupping her face, wiping her hair away. Anybody else and she would have belted him from the get-go, but there’s something about Mulder that has always managed to inveigle its way through her barriers. There’s something so honest about him. 

“I might have the steak,” he says, closing his menu. His fingers brush hers and she shivers. He notices. Definitely. Because there’s a quirk at the edges of his lips and he dips his face closer to ask her what she wants. She holds the rim of the wineglass to her mouth and presses it against her lips. She doesn’t quite trust herself to answer that question. 

The waiter jots their orders down with efficiency and Mulder rests his forearm on the table, knocking his cutlery against his plate. She looks down, sees his watch. It’s new, she thinks. Without thinking, she bends to look at the detail. He’s always worn quality watches. She ponders that it’s because he always needs to know the exact time. Seconds, minutes, hours are important to him in a way that she can’t fully explain, but just feels it. It anchors him in a more defined way than it does her. Time. Time and space. They’re intrinsically linked. He’s time and she’s space. Or maybe it’s the other way round. Or maybe they’re just fused in some way. Inseparable. She taps the round glass cover, working out the dials and such. Omega. The end. The last letter.

“I am Alpha and Omega.” She doesn’t realise she’s said it out loud until he says ‘sorry?’ and she looks down at her fingers on his wrist. On his wrist.

“No, I’m sorry,” she says and folds the edge of her napkin into a tight coil. 

“You like this watch, Scully?” He’s running his finger around the strap, silver links lined up. “It’s a Seamaster. Reliable, solid timekeeper. Good-looking too.” He grins at her. 

She nods. “It’s a James Bond watch.” 

He grins again. The waiter brings their dinners. “My Aston Martin is parked out back. Fancy a ride?”

“Maybe later,” she says, half-laughing and picking up her fork. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” he whispers, face suddenly serious. She swallows a mouthful of chicken. Looks back at the watch. Omega.

“Omega physics is the measurement of rotation rate. Angular frequency,” she says, softly. It’s a conciliatory sentence, a kind of starting over. A flirt, she supposes. A science flirt. If there is such a thing.

He nods. “And the symbol represents ohms, units of electrical resistance.” He flirts right back. Good.

There’s a kind of spooky alignment of their choice of example, she thinks. Rotation and resistance. Turning in circles and pushing against things. It’s them. It’s so them. She taps his watch again and shakes her head at the way she always manages to see a connection to themselves in everything. A frequency illusion. Baader-Meinhof. He unbuckles the watch. Slips it down over his hand and lays it out for her to admire. It really is good-looking. Solid. Reliable.


End file.
